The Trouble with Memories
by ravenhaired
Summary: Albus Dumbledore is just an old man alone with his memories. PreHBP, touches of ADMM.


**The Trouble with Memories**

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

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The trouble with memories, Albus Dumbledore reflected, was that one could never quite escape them. They could blur, become distorted over time, maybe even slip into the hazy world of half-memory, when only the feeling remained. But they remained.

But was forgetting them any better than remembering? What he feared, perhaps, more than anything else, was that he _would _forget all those things that troubled or taunted him. Everything that troubled him, what secretly nagged the back of his mind and caused him many a sleepless moment was what kept him caring.

Albus Dumbledore was afraid of not caring. That's what made his stomach knot, caused a slight tremor to shake his aging form. Albus Dumbledore had always cared. Albus loathed to think about what it would be like if he did not care. He was not a man given to be puffed up with his own importance...but in some situations it was foolish to overlook your own self-worth.

But memories had started him down this road of thoughtfulness and only in memories would he find his relief. He tapped the side of his Pensieve lightly, staring into its depths as a pale white light illuminated his features.

Oh yes. Memories were painful things to behold. Especially at night. He didn't know why, but he could always face regrets better in the daylight. And god knew there was too many.

Not saving Tom Riddle was a particularly painful memory, as Lord Voldemort's face, young, fresh, but still with that streak of malice, swam to the surface, eyes glaring accusingly at the ceiling. Tom Riddle could have been saved, Albus was sure of that. Albus believed that anyone could be saved. A fool, an idealistic fool, he thought sadly of himself as Tom sank back.

But it was very well wishing for what could not be had. Very well having regrets.

He tapped again, summoning another specter.

Ah. A young Minerva McGonagall, complete with glasses and braid half-ways down her back, clutching a copy of 'Advanced Transfiguration'. Albus didn't think she could ever have been called 'lovely' or 'pretty'. 'Fierce', or 'passionate' was a more apt description. But then were looks everything? Albus didn't think so. Looks didn't matter so much when the real things began to matter. Conversation. Albus relished conversation. And Minerva was a spirited provider of good conversation.

But Minerva was another regret, a regret of promising things left discarded.

He tapped again.

Severus Snape. Severus was another boy whom Albus had failed to save. He could not help but think he had failed all of Slytherin, abandoned them to what fate had decreed inevitable: a slow descent into darkness. But what could Albus have done in the face of such blatant indoctrination? Nothing, nothing at all. Not that he had tried doing anything.

But there must've been something, he thought. After all, it had been he whom Severus, shaky of breath, trembling, raving, had chosen to appear to, that dreadful night. Albus had thought for mere moments that the Death Eater had been sent to kill him, but Severus had merely looked at his former headmaster, cold eyes lifeless under a mass of unkempt hair. Severus had been saved. But he'd been saved too late.

He tapped again, banishing Severus.

James and Lily Potter. Foolish, foolish man, should have i insisted /i upon being their Secret Keeper, to hell with Sirius Black, to hell with what James _wanted_ …but then Albus cared too much for feelings, too much for the camaraderie he seen between the boys.

But wishing wouldn't bring back Harry Potter's parents, now would it? He sighed as Harry's face swam now to the surface. Poor boy. Harry Potter was Albus' biggest regret, what troubled him most. He had never been a father, never been anything to children beyond a benevolent teacher and then headmaster, so how could he know if he was doing what was best for the boy? He could not help but think of Harry as somehow 'his', even if he was not.

He wondered if Harry Potter would be saved. If Harry Potter could be saved.

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_The End._


End file.
